


little red cap

by thebetterbina



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Character Death, Erotic Poetry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Illustrated, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Murder, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, at the time of this creation the writer was tired and the artist was horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 07:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: They’re at a bar, to celebrate Connor officially becoming a detective; they’re at the edge of the woods — and watching Hank knock back another shot of whiskey, mirth dancing like firelight in eyes that captured the hottest part of the flame — Connor can say he’s finally clapped eyes on the wolf.bina and mb back at it again yeetfollow me on tumblr because twitter blocked me&annoy moonbee on twitter because she loves the attention





	little red cap

**Author's Note:**

> big dick thanks to mark (siMOAN) and LT (lieutenant PROLAPSE) for helping me beta and telling me when they didn't understand something because most of the time im doing this shit at the asscrack of dawn and never get the patience to read anything thru again
> 
> even bigger dick thanks to mb for always drawing hankcon to get me horny, seriously if you don't follow her i'm judging you

_At childhood’s end, the houses petered out_  
_Into playing fields, the factory, allotments_  
_Kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men_  
_The silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan_  
_Till you came at last to the edge of the woods_ _  
It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf_

 

Connor Dechart’s a fresh academy graduate when he meets the wolf; bright, wide eyed wonder boy — Valedictorian of his class, a promising future with the Detroit Police Department. Well loved by his peers, superiors find no fault in him. There’d been no doubt the young, promising officer would barrel his way to promotion. He had a charm, he supposes, having Amanda to thank for those lessons on how to talk the socks off any politician.

 

She’d been disappointed he didn’t want to join the FBI — to “catch bigger fish” — but Connor can say he’s content with his decision; Detroit was his home, and he, like a boy grappling onto his mother’s apron seams, couldn’t bear to leave the city in its murder and muck. He’s the child throwing each starfish, one by one, back into the ocean. He can’t make a great deal difference to all of them alone; but Connor knows he can make a difference to every case that gets solved under him.

 

At childhood’s end, maturity became abandoned playing fields, deserted factories, allotments cast aside in favour of greater and grander things that Connor didn’t — couldn’t — bother reaching for. Simply because he had no desire to.

 

In this story, red riding hood falls in love with the wolf.

 

Hank Anderson, with his dirt blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, was every bit of an enigma as the rumour ghosted. He was tall, handsome in a way Connor hesitated to describe, with a voice that lulled and rolled like distant thunder. A deep baritone that had goosebumps break across his skin, a delightful shiver Connor hadn’t known was arousal until a little too late.

 

They’re at a bar, to celebrate Connor officially becoming a detective; they’re at the edge of the woods — and watching Hank knock back another shot of whiskey, mirth dancing like firelight in eyes that captured the hottest part of the flame — Connor can say he’s finally clapped eyes on the wolf.

 

 _He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud_  
_In his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw_  
_Red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears_  
_He had! What big eyes he had! What teeth!_  
_In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me_  
_Sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink_

 

It happened incidentally. Becoming partners had been the last thing Connor had expected, but it’s not surprising — Hank’s the youngest Detroit Lieutenant and Connor a promising newbie detective. It made sense to pair another diamond with one in the rough, give tips on how to shine and maybe Connor could teach an aging dog some new tricks.

 

He’s charming in more ways than Connor can count, when there’s a crime Hank doesn’t bother holding back the effortless lure he puts like a curse — his voice curling like smoke around the potential witnesses. He watches them become spellbound, transfixed and pliant under each syllable enunciated with a promise. _Of what?_ Connor knows he’s more boyish, sweet, and innocent that made him desirable solely because he acted desireless. Playfully nonchalant, but that particular characteristic only worked under certain circumstances.

 

In the midst of interviewing a victim, Hank’s gaze meets his, winter and hot chocolate. Perfect combination. Hank winks. Connor looks away, willing the deepening flush down. Still he smiles, he made quite sure Hank spotted him.

 

A glance that lingered too long, a touch that feathered more than once.

 

An invite out, drinks with the other officers. It was fine at the beginning, a simple way to bond and get over the day. Then it became weekly, eventually nightly — Connor’s strayed and he knows, _waif_ , away from the solace of his home. Hank buys him drinks every time they’re out now, he can’t find it in him to reject.

 

Say no, the little boy in him cries.

 

Don’t say anything at all, another side replies.

 

He follows the latter.

  
_My first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry_  
_The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods_  
_Away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place_  
_Lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake_  
_My stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer_  
_Snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes_

 

It happened casually. Too many drinks in one night, too plastered and too far gone to make it anywhere home alone. The chair he sits on, _in a car_ , he vaguely notes the start of an engine — smelled like Hank, liquor, cigarette ash, weak cologne. He giggles at the scent, invading olfactory senses, embracing the new smell like a fresh new wonder. Hank besides him chuckles, probably finds it funny the newbie managed to get so hammered in one night.

 

His first. You might ask why. Here’s why. He’s not the kind of boy for messy, one night stands. He’s not suited to hasty, morning getaways. He’s not meant to be the one that got away.

 

He’s the doe eyed wonder, the perfect angel you take back to your parents.

 

Tonight he abandons his halo, clips his wings, and descends.

 

Connor made it clear he didn’t want to go home, had no interest in returning back to the stark walls of his apartment and even bleaker, empty corridors devoid of life. He roams the woods his wolf had led him to, finds a new balm in the dark tangled thorny place. The house Hank own’s is quaint, big enough for a family, yet the furniture only gave way for a single man, lonely man, living with a dog. A dog! Soft, welcoming the touch like a person starved, faintly he hears the thunder call.

 

He doesn’t want the couch. He knows what he wants, he’s not stumbling now — he knows what he wants as he presses, _presses_ , body flushed and desperately eager against the older man. The breath they share is tinged with the bite of alcohol, yet he still pursues, craving penance like a sinner desperate for reprieve at the altar. Murder clues, he’d lost both shoes.

  
_But got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night_  
_Breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem_  
_I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for_  
_What little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf?_  
_Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws_  
_And went in search of a living bird – white dove –_

 

It happened accidentally. The moans, the groans, the love poem etched on a couch that had long seen it’s prime. He whimpers under every touch, whispers and begs for more, breath of the wolf in his ear chiding. He’s speaking softly, too gently, Connor doesn’t want that — he shushes with another kiss, desperate, clutching like absolution would only be felt held in his arms. It’s to wretched ruin.

 

 

Connor only feels salvation.

 

The wolf he loves smiles, soft and altogether kind. Underneath the catching moonlight, Connor isn't sure he can match that radiance.

 

He’s big, not in the kind most would expect, thick and unyielding as the length stretches him — tearing a whine from his throat, choked sobs, shaky moans. He clings, craving, wanton and begging. Bucking like his life depended on it, pleasure coursing through when Hank finally decides to respond in kind. Thrusts, slow that brought him careening over the edge, head thrown back as stars danced behind eyelids. This is a romance, played by wicked touch, scent, an aphrodisiac on his lips.

 

It’s a spinning world up he refuses to let go, up until he comes, with a cry, soft and all broken in — Hank’s name on his lips like worshipper to their god. Hank follows after, deep grunts, and hot spurts; matted paws, low growls. Wolfish.

 

He’s awake in the morning before Hank is, they’d moved to the bed somewhere in the night. Connor notes with a smile he’d been cleaned, softly, treated gently like a flower, _a lover_ . He watches for a while, the wolf, _his wolf_ , chest rising with every breath as sunlight trickled and filtered through the uncapped curtains.

 

The knock at the door is unwelcome, too early, too insistent. He bothers only with pants, and opens the door to a woman — pretty little thing, shocked, lips set in a gasp before they eye the peppering trail of purple butterfly kisses along his collar and features contort to fury. Fury directed at him, questions, questions, questions; until Hank decides to appear, bleary from the morning. It would’ve been endearing under different circumstances.

  
_Which flew, straight, from my hands to his open mouth_  
_One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said_  
_Licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back_  
_Of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books_  
_Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head_  
_Warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood_

 

He’s out of the house, _thrown more likely_ , and out of the fantasy faster than any blissful dream he could ever hope to hold onto. He’d selfishly wished to be special, wanted so desperately to have those blues like the azure sky gaze only onto him, him alone.

 

How could he have hoped, that a sky, as all encompassing as it was — would choose to only house a single cloud?

 

It breaks him, just a little, to know the moments spent tethered between pleasure and irrevocable desperation were about as delicate as porcelain. Eventually broken by uncaring hands, left shattered on the floor; remnants of what could have been. He lets the tears fall, bitter, hot pearls that stream down his face.

 

His first. You might as why. Here’s why. He’s never loved. Never really wanted to love. But love is unexpected, and his is a fragile little thing. It’s brittle, it breaks, it shatters like glass and no matter how many pieces are stuck together — it’ll never be the same. Not really anyways. People sometimes settle for second hand. Or fakes. Or whatever that came their way. He guesses he’d have to be the same.

 

Connor takes the rest of the week off, he keeps his phone dead and let’s the numerous calls and messages pile up like dirt above a coffin.

 _But then I was young – and it took ten years_  
_In the woods to tell that a mushroom_  
_Stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds_  
_Are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf_  
_Howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out_  
_Season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe_

But then he was young — a sincere nature filled with drastic measures of naivety, like an indulging syndrome for his youth. Innocence now stained. He watched himself bury the corpse of that doe eyed boy, carved a way for something coarser. One that was more prone to quick fucks, never found in the same bed twice.

 

He wakes up sore, not entirely the good kind. Head spinning. Eventually he’d have to cut it off, the booze, the sex.

 

He’s done it before, and doubtless he’d do it again.

 

A head on the pillow beside him — whose? — it didn’t matter. Another name he’d never remember, added to the growing list. They’d be good looking, always. Light hair, deep lines around the eyes (always blue) from laughter or maybe pain; Connor never questioned, never wanted to know. With a mouth that knew how to flatter, which he kissed. Again and again. All until the heaven’s peeled back and showed their pearly white gates, until he’d touch the silver lining of cloud nine and slammed back down onto the earth. He’d chase the stars with every new lover in bed, and it didn’t matter who.

 

In the mirror, he saw his eyes glitter. He flung the red sheets, sticky, colour darkening and there — life’s a bitch like that — was the severed head of the night time lover.

 

Fingers trace over lifeless features, a gentleness he reserves for these special few. Blood runs warmest, as Connor finds, when freshly run from the wound. After that it coagulates, darkens, it’s still a pretty red; but Connor thinks he likes it best when fresh.

 

He’s done this before, and doubtless he’d do it again.

 

But it didn’t matter, because he thinks he’d never bed the wolf again.

 _To a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon_  
_To see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf_  
_As he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw_  
_The glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones_  
_I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up_  
_Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone_

 

Oh, but the fairy tale doesn’t end that way — it ends in a flurry of anger, naked limbs and an unspoken resentment.

 

He gave his heart; portioned, neatly sliced, silver platter — but the wolf he’d come to love had been dining on others while he feasted on his.

 

Connor’s a Sergeant now, but still he’s still a step away from the Captain — older now, greying hair, but Connor can’t see the change in Hank — that bucks into him; fierce, snarling with every harsh thrust. He takes an axe to the wolf, flipping their position and riding to his own pace. Stopping when he pleased, and hissing when moved. Connor plunges in the power, they finish together.

 

He realizes, even as he watches the greying wolf sleep, he’s still in love with him.

 

Knife to the wolf. One slice. Opened throat.

 

He saw the glistening white of his old bones, he fills the throat with older stones.

 

Out of the forest red riding hood comes, with his flowers, singing.

 

All alone.

**Author's Note:**

> connor ends up a murderer. why? love. that's why. phuck if i know.
> 
> i remember reading the world's wife a few years back and basically being shOOK, highly recommended if your dick gets hard for good poetry!
> 
> [follow me on tumblr because twitter blocked me](https://thebetterbina.tumblr.com/) & [annoy moonbee on twitter because she loves the attention](https://twitter.com/moon_bee_?lang=en)
> 
>  
> 
> [also we made a hankcon discord server whats new come join the shitstorm](https://discord.gg/zUK2z34)


End file.
